Complete Story. Summer Voices.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXVIII, Issue V, 1 February 1902, Page 200

Complete Story. Summer Voices.

By

Maxime Gorki, The New Russian Genius.

On the branches and beneath the leaves of the locust tree near my window a flock of sparrows chatters merrily, and on the gable end of the neighbour's house a worthy crow listens eagerly and from time to time nods his head as if approving what is said. The warm, sunlit air carries every sound to my writing desk. I hearken with delight to the rapid, not over-loud voice of the rivulet, and the wind, holding speech in the tree tops, has no secrets from me. Neither have the pigeons who talk on my window ledge—such is the music of summer.

“Tchik-hirik,” said an old sparrow to his friends, "here we have summer at last. It made us wait, though, didn’t it? Tchik-tchirik.” “It’s a fa-ct. It’s a fa-ct,” replied the crow, stretching forth his neck with graceful courtesy.

I know the crow well. He is a cautious bird, and always expresses himself in the affirmative. Maybe his natural gifts are not remarkable —he is somewhat of a coward—but for all that holds an enviable position in bird society. There hasn't been a winter since he's grown up without some charitable bazaar under his patronage. He's always doing something for antiquated pigeons and disabled jackdaws. As to sparrows, I have had them under constant surveillance for a long while, and I assure you Mr Passerine is deeper than most people think.

True, he likes to play the lightfoot, to appear frivolous, fickle, and even liberal, but he knows on which side his bread is buttered, nevertheless.

Just watch the hypocrite now as he is dancing attendance upon the crow with fulsome assurances of esteem, while in his heart of hearts he knows the crow's worth to a T. Indeed, if you but let him, he will rattle off a hundred or more piquant stories about the gentleman in black and his wife. A hundred, I said? Two hundred and more.

On the window sill tip-toes a young, dandified pigeon cock, trying to convince a pink billed dove of his eternal passion.

“I will per-ish, believe me, I will per-ish with disappointment lest you respond to my love,” he says. "Have you heard, my lord, the greenfinches have arrived, the greenfinches that were supposed to have suffered shipwreck on their way from the South ?■" reports the sparrow. “It’s a fa-ct, it’s a fa-ct.”

“And are making an awful fuss—want to be seen by everybody at once, and are Talking their heads off. Really, these birds that are forever on the go have no manners at all. And. think of it. the blackcaps travelled in their wake. Birds of a feather, of course! Last night I asked one of those young wrens, ‘Hello, making your debut this season?’ and with a sneer she answered. ‘lf the So-and-Sos come, yes. Otherwise, no.’ That

to me, a sparrow who lodges in the Emperor’s yard and might presume to the title of imperial court sparrow. I tell you the greenfinches and blackcaps are nothing better than Anarchists. Have no respect for rank and dignity; they mock at polite societ v.”

At this moment a young raven emerged from behind the chimney to make a sort of proclamation. “Being bound by the regulations to listen to all the voices in the air and on the water, in the earth’s interior and above ground,” he said. “I now rise to declare that the arrival of the greenfinches means the return of the joyous season of summer. Hence it behoves us all to be of good cheer and to treat these heralds at least decently.” “Tchik-tchirik,” cried the sparrow, who carried on two shoulders, while the erow nodded his head in good-natt.red assent. “But,” added the greyeoat, “are you quite certain that these birds act on authority?”

“It’s a fact, it’s a fa-ct,” cried the crow; “we ought to be sure if that.”

But the raven, without noticing the spiteful interruptions, continued: “The greenfinches, strange to say, are not wholly delighted with the condition of society as they found it here. They find fault with the drinking water, for one thing; again, they complain of the rigidness of our customs. They want more liberty.’’

“ Desire for the abolition of timehonoured customs and the consequent passion for liberty are infantile diseases,” spoke the old sparrow with dignity. “ I was young myself once, and foolish enough to dream of liberty. with certain restrictions, of course. But I soon got over it. After I acquired a family I thought only of adding to my estates.” “A—hm!” Somebody was clearing his throat in authoritative style. The Hon. Mr. Bullfinch, who at one time was owned by on American millionaire. had appeared on the linden tree. Mr Bullfinch is a remarkably tract-

able bird, and apt to assimilate the manners and methods of his “ betters ” with startling facility. Today he wore his Sunday go-to-meet-ing clothes, including jewellery. The black portions of his attire were fine and glossy; the red of his breast and belly looked as if touched up by an artist’s brush. After saluting the birds as his former master used to salute his army of book-keepers and clerks, he said: “ Pardon, gentlemen! It seems to me there’s something in the air ” “ Summer, your Honor,” put in the sparrow. And the crow began to make sheep's eyes at the bullfinch, and croaked in his mellowest tones. “ As I said, there is something m the air,” continued the bullfinch. “ 1 told our friend, the owl, so yesterday, but, while agreeing with me, he didn’t know what to make of it. Finally 1 had to promise to investigate, and he was quite satisfied.” “ Good for the owl! ” chirruped the sparrow. “ A bird who knows his limitations cannot put too much trust in his superiors.” A lark came down from heaven, and, espying a sunlit spot on the lawn, settled there and began to run up and down, singing of life and joy and love of liberty. “What kind of a bird is that?” asked the bullfinch, regarding the lark r nt of the corner of one eye. “ A lark, your Honor, only a lark,” replied the raven, leaving his place behind the chimney. “ She calls herself a poet,” sneered the sparrow. “ That beggar a poet—nonsense, " cried the bullfinch. “ But at any rate she has loose manners. I thought I heard her talk of liberty.” “ Yes,” affirmed the raven, “ she is dead struck on liberty, if your Honor will pardon the slang; is always prating about it, poisoning the minds of the young and filling their hearts with impossible hopes.”

“ There she makes an ass of herself. ” “1 should say so,” cried the sparrow, “ besides, this hankering for liberty is rude and vulgar.” “But if I am not mistaken, you were somewhat of a Socialist yourself not so many years ago,” said the bullfinch, giving the sparrow a withering look. “It’s a fa-ct, it's a fa-ct,” cried the crow. He acted like a person suddenly awakened out of a long slumber. The sparrow lost his presence of mind for a brief moment, but his inborn impertinence soon made him think of a suitable excuse. .“There were extenuating circumstances in my case,” he pleaded. “ Indeed," smiled the bullfinch, vagiflMy. “ I was a Garibaldi and Prince Krapotkin only after dinner, over the coffee and nuts; in short. I acted under the influence of liquor. And even then I knew enough to keep within bounds. After saying ' Long live liberty ’ in an undertone, I always added in thrilling accents ‘Within the legal bopnds, of course.’ ”

The bullfinch looked at the raven as if to say: “He is lying, the rascal,” but the raven replied bravely: “It's so, your Honor, it’s so.” The graycoat continued: “Rest assured, my lord, that I never forgot what’s due to my position as court sparrow. How could I, who had the sublime honour of dining with their Majesties in the open time, and again I, who regularly feasts off the crumbs swept out of the Emperor's dining-room, how could I propagate ideas that smack of revolution, of contempt for the great of this world ? ”

“ It’s a fa-ct, it’s a fa-ct,” cried the crow. It was all the same to him. And the brook that lends life and beauty to my garden hastened to join his fellow in the nearby forest, and together they murmured the song of the great river which they hope to embrace at the end of their journey. “The giant waves fold us in their arms and carry us out to sea. And the sun smiles upon us and invites us to rise heavenwards. And from heaven we return to earth as dew in the night, as rain or snow.”

As I look at Sol he seems to smile like a god busy creating things. No wonder all the birds are turning

their attention to him and serenade him. There is, in parrticular, a redbreast robin who teaches hia comrades a new song he heard somewhere on his winter tour of the South. It's the song of the stormbird. Listen!

“Perilous clouds gather over the foam-lashed sea and between heaven and water flits the storm bird like a black streak of lightning, now in haughty arrogance kissing the waves, again rising with arrowspeed to swindling heights, uttering cries of triumph. “The storm is his element. As the deer thirsts for the well, so the storm bird thirsts for destructive wind, for iey rain, pelting hail, and snow. His cry signifies rage, vengeance, hatred, and victory. “The sea gulls 'fear him. They flutter about anxiously—would hide at the bottom of the ocean if they could. And the diver bird. too. trembles at his approach. Roaring thunder makes him hide his head. And all other birds, and the fish as well, seek their caves and beds. Only the bird of storm flits over the waters with supreme courage. The clouds sink lower and lower. The dance of the waves begins. The waves dance because they like the storm. “Thunder, more thunder, and still more. The sea roars. Black clouds take up the waves, to throw them ruthlessly upon hard rocks. “The bird of storm continues his way with caressing of waves and darting heavenwards, but no longer does he look like a black streak of lightning; rather like a demon, and like a demon he laughs and howls. He laughs over the funny capers of the clouds and cries over the pains inflicted on the wrecked waters. “And the wind continued to blow, the thunder to roar, while countless bolts of fire strike the bosom of the sea, only to have their life crushed out by the contact. They are like serpents of molten silver —the sea their mirror. “Storm!

“The bird of storm flits between lightning and waves, crying victory.”